


Solitary Paleswelt

by soulhollow



Category: Dragonlance - Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman
Genre: C-PTSD, Chronic Illness, F/M, Gen, God-Bothered Raistlin Majere, M/M, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-13 16:25:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15368583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulhollow/pseuds/soulhollow
Summary: An introspective and eventually slice-of-life piece beginning directly after the final events inTest of the Twins, originally started in 2002. Canon setting, but canon-divergent.





	1. Chapter 1 - Separation

**Prologue**

 

“Shut it!” Raistlin screamed, barely maintaining his narrowly-won ascendance over Fistandantilus.

A blast of flame seared his flesh. A taloned claw stabbed him in the back. He stumbled, falling to his knees. But he never took his eyes from the Portal, even while the lich railed against his resolve. Raistlin saw Caramon, his twin’s face anguished, take a step forward, toward him!

“No! Shut it, you fool!” Raistlin shrieked, clenching his fists. “Leave me alone! I don’t need you! _I don’t need you!_ ” A lie, of course. He’d never needed his brother more, but there was nothing Caramon could do. They both knew it, or Caramon would never have entered this place, sword drawn, his expression...

And then the light was gone. The Portal slammed shut, blackness pouncing upon him with raging, slathering fury. Talons ripped flesh, teeth tore through muscle, crunched bone. Blood flowed from his breast, but it would not take with it his life.

He screamed, and he would scream, and he would keep on screaming unendingly…

Sheer white broke through the coiling darkness. Radiant shafts, unforgiving lances through Her Majesty’s taloned grip, a healing freeze through Raistlin’s flesh.

A harsh scream reverberated through the shifting glare. The piercing talon slid free from his back, an experience that should’ve hurt but the screaming wasn’t coming from him. The pain had stopped, leaving numbness in its wake. Nearly blinded, Raistlin lowered his gaze to his hands, then lifted a palm. The light passed through his skin like sun through the surface of a lake.

“How _dare_ you take that which is rightfully mine!” Takhisis howled behind him.

Thoroughly benumbed, Raistlin sank to his side in the rust colored sand of the Abyss. Ahead of him, barely visible through the shifting glare, the darkened oval of the portal began to fade.

 

**Chapter 1 - Separation**

 

“How do we divide a soul as dense as this?”

“As carefully as we can…”

Drawn to consciousness by the voices around him; they were everywhere and nowhere at once, Raistlin tried to blink only to find it served no purpose. The light didn’t change, nor the scenery. Gravity had no meaning.

“The lich must go. Our work begins with him, with Fistandantilus.”

Raistlin felt dark humor rise in his chest, the all-too-familiar presence of his constant companion. Of course the lich wasn’t gone yet. _‘Til death do us part would’ve been too simple, bargains with gods or not_.

“He owes his allegiance to Takhisis, but what of Majere?”

 _As if any of you would have me now_ , Raistlin thought, feeling Fistandantilus rallying his reserves. Quiescent since Raistlin had resisted him before the portal, the knowledge that he’d gone to ground wasn’t surprising. Biding his time came naturally to the lich; he’d had several ages to develop patience.

“I would claim him,” answered a melodious voice.

Though his eyes were closed, Raistlin’s mind filled with memories of the nighttime landscape drenched in Lunitari’s reddish purple light. A ruby crescent tilted in his mind’s eye, suddenly a grin.

“You, sister?” Echoed a cold voice in bleak retort. “He turned his back on you, on _us_. My dearest mother offered him power. He barely hesitated.”

“The board is always stacked in her favor, dear Nuitari. You know this as well as I; it hardly becomes you to pretend otherwise. He played a marvelous game, wouldn’t you agree Solinari?”

“I would agree that Majere broke rules necessity had yet to invent.”

“Stodgy,” Lunitari replied, her voice serious yet tinted with mirth. “Let us unravel this tangle, dear family. Raistlin cannot answer entirely of his own accord until we’ve separated the lich.”

“It won’t be easy,” spoke one of the voices from when Raistlin had been waking. “Won’t you relinquish your hold, Fistandantilus?”

Knowing full well he’d used the very last of his strength and stamina to thwart the lich before his brother and before the portal, Raistlin didn’t try to resist the familiar sensation of Fistandantilus’s mental coils tightening.

 _Gods know I’ve tried_ , he thought, the irony of present company not escaping him.

“The hard way, then,” stated the voice in response to Fistandantilus’s silence. A moment passed, then chill blue light ignited within his chest. All too soon, the light grew in strength and intensity, quickly mirroring the stark shafts of Paladine’s light, save that it carried a blue tint and a chill so deep it burned.

Initially, Fistandantilus withstood the onslaught. If the light managed to reach him, he swiftly sought deeper places within Raistlin’s mind.

A second presence joined Mishakal. Wordlessly, or perhaps deigning not to share his words or intentions with Raistlin and Fistandantilus, the unknown presence touched a fingertip to Raistlin’s forehead.

Pain struck then. Fistandantilus, shaken in the face of such timelessness, screamed through Raistlin’s mouth, from Raistlin’s throat. Raistlin felt his body arch, muscles pulling taut as memories flowed outward like blood from an artery. Every memory, each moment he’d experienced, each moment Fistandantilus had experienced. Swirling sands, Takhisis, Crysania ensconced in a pillar of Paladine’s light. Caramon, his face contorted in grief and rage. Then back, faster and faster. Zhaman, the long march across the plains, Istar, his battle with Fistandantilus, Crysania, Dalamar, a whir of memories rushing back to his Test at Wayreth.

“There!” Mishakal exclaimed.

A cut, swift and impossibly sharp.

Uncoiling, tearing, _ripping_. Raistlin’s eyes flared open. He couldn’t scream, the pain was choking him. Memories were flashing by, rushing forward, rushing back. His own. Fistandantilus’s. The countless apprentices the lich had consumed to maintain his longevity.

“I knew this would not be easy,” Mishakal intoned grimly.

“There will be damage,” came the second voice, deep and timeless.

A sweep of red momentarily shrouded Raistlin’s sight. Cool hands, seemingly human, gently settled on either side of his head. “I’ll shield you as much as I may.” Lunitari, her wordless voice entering Raistlin’s mind.

Lost in the rending pain of separation, Raistlin could only gaze up at her visage. Wavy hair, darker than the night sky. A gentle smile, or merely a sickle moon? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally began this fic in 2002, before reading _Second Generation_ and _Dragons of Summer Flame_. At the time, I wrote five pages. Shortly after, I must have read both of the aforementioned books and found my fic and its whole premise canon-divergent. It dissuaded me from continuing the story, but I’ve since discovered that canon-divergence is hardly a reason to scrap an idea… and so here we are, sixteen years later. I hope you enjoy this introspective piece. If you’re reading, do drop me a line!


	2. Chapter 2 - Emptiness

Rising from deep sleep, Raistlin’s eyes fluttered open. At first, everything was doused in pale tan light. Once he was able to focus, empty horizon was all that greeted him. Unlike before, however, when he’d seemed to hover in the very ether, now he could see the ground. Light sand, nearly white. He was in a bed, the dark wooden frame, the bed’s very existence baffling in the expanse of nothingness. No sun hovered overhead, nor clouds, but it was bright nonetheless. No breeze blew. A place defined by its absences.

Gingerly, he shifted his arms and pushed himself up into a sitting position. His heart felt heavy, thudding in his chest. Was the lich gone? Closing his eyes, Raistlin found that he feared the answer… but fearing answers had never gotten him anywhere useful.

He sought inward. A rush of chaotic memories awaited him, threatening to drown him, but these he turned away from. Surely there would be time for that. Right now, he needed to know. Broken walls remained, shattered, ruined. A once neatly-organized library, its expanse now utterly devastated. Around each shelf, more chaos, but no presence save his own.

Emptiness.

Twelve years he’d lived with the lich’s presence, though not fully cognizant of the arrangement in the beginning.

Giving his head a slight shake, he opened his eyes and considered the vast nothingness. It seemed empty, but he knew They must be there. Conferring amongst themselves.

“Who am I?” he breathed, gazing at the distant horizon.

The horizon, not unexpectedly, provided no answers. After a time, Raistlin dropped his eyes to his hands. Immediately, eyes narrowing, he raised his palms and turned both hands front to back. Pale skin. A few light freckles. The gold cast was gone, along with Fistandantilus. Reaching up, he caught at his hair to pull it into view. Light brown, almost auburn, heavily peppered with silver.

“Yes, nearly every trace,” came Lunitari’s voice by way of explanation.

Raistlin looked up. The patron goddess of neutral magic stood near his bed, occupying a form nearly human in appearance. Nearly human, if he didn’t stare, or focus too strongly on any one aspect of her appearance. If he did, it seemed she became impossibly tall, or took on the cast of her namesake luminary.

“Nearly every?” he inquired, moving to rise from the bed. Sitting in the anomalous fixture amidst the surrounding emptiness filled him with a sense of incongruity.

“There was some… damage,” she replied. As she spoke, her pale fingers laced before her. “Your souls were tightly bound. Some of his memories are likely to remain, while some of your own are now lost.”

Raistlin, now standing, considered the implications of her words. To his surprise, no emotion rose within him. Where he might’ve expected to feel concern, anger, or even sadness… there was nothing.

Deciding to shelve the matter for later, he focused on Lunitari’s shifting appearance. “Why did you separate us?”

All at once, the empty landscape grew crowded. Gods filled the area, loaning a density the place typically lacked.

“A true imbalance existed within you,” answered the deep voice from before, the god who’d aided Mishakal. “In binding himself to your soul, Fistandantilus enabled a paradox within the River of Time. This imbalance could not be permitted to remain.”

 _Ah, Gilean then_ , Raistlin surmised. Turning slowly, he took in the surrounding company, or at least those he could see. More crowded close, he could sense their presence even if he couldn’t make them out. He should feel awe in such company, or so he felt. Certainly, he might have once. He’d felt awe and fear in the presence of the Queen of Darkness.

Now he only felt weariness, tempered with mild curiosity. His heart continued to thud heavily in his chest, no faster than when he’d woken to find himself in this place.

The silence took on an air of expectancy. Raistlin turned back to Lunitari. “I’m… not dead, am I?”

Lunitari inclined her head briefly, and again Raistlin found the image of a sickle moon dancing in his mind’s eye. He focused his eyes on her visage, but doing so caused little more than confusion. A red moon, rising high in the star-strewn night sky.

“What happens now?”

Lunitari’s melodic laughter echoed through the present company. “Ah yes, that is the question we must deliberate upon. What happens _now_ , Raistlin Majere?”


	3. Chapter 3 - Choices

Time held little meaning in the expanse of nothingness. Raistlin wandered, filled with a weariness he couldn’t seem to shake. At first, he wondered if the landscape had limits. Much like the Abyss, it responded to his will. If he envisioned a location, he’d find himself there, but the locations only served as mirrors for their counterparts on Krynn. If his concentration faltered, the surroundings disappeared. During his wandering, certain that he should grow weary or out of breath, he rested a hand to his chest and found that he wasn’t breathing. Startled, he breathed in, then out, in, out. Still later, having moved on to consider other things, he realized he’d yet again ceased to breathe. Only the slow heavy thud of his heart remained, unchanging. _Mortal, mortal, mortal_ , it thumped, a dull reminder that he currently occupied a place no living creature had any right to be.

Finally, during his wanderings, something different caught his attention. A streak of swirling darkness, a presence. _Her_ presence. A twinge of fear stuttered to life in his chest, a recollection of Her talon piercing his back, Her fury at the loss of Her prey.

Drawing a breath, Raistlin walked toward the shifting column of inky smoke. If harm were Her desire, and surely it was and would remain so, She would’ve been able to do it. Something prevented Her from carrying out Her wishes.

As he approached, the twisting smoke began to solidify. Pausing, Raistlin glanced to his side. A shadow stretched forth, clearly his own. It was circling toward his back, slowly.

 _Curious_.

He returned his gaze to Takhisis. Unlike most of the other deities, the pantheon revealed to him thus far, the Queen of Darkness had a precise grasp on projecting appearances. Dark hair shrouded Her pale shoulders in waves. A gown of similar darkness accentuated Her form, a figure of perfected femininity. Too perfect, a look only a Goddess could achieve.

After considering Her for a moment, Raistlin inclined his head in genuine respect. On looking up, he noticed the slightest tic of a smile at the edge of Her mouth.

“They would return you to the world, Raistlin Majere.”

Raistlin, maintaining eye contact, tilted his head. “Why are you the first to inform me, if this is true?”

“I resent it,” Takhisis replied, Her voice taking on a reptilian hiss. With a graceful sweep of Her wrist, another visage of shifting darkness appeared. “They think they have a right to deprive me of you, that I should be content with Fistandantilus.” Having looked away from him, She considered the whirling smoke dancing above Her open palm.

So. _So_. They intended to send him back. “What if I don’t wish to return?”

With a flick of Her wrist, the twisting form of Fistandantilus’s soul disappeared. “You will, Raistlin Majere. Would you like to know why?”

For his part, Raistlin looked away, noticing his shadow had disappeared from his peripheral vision, having likely moved behind him.

“You will begin to forget, if you remain in this place,” Takhisis continued. “Mortals cannot exist in these realms for long. You will lose your memories. Slowly, everything that you are will fade away.”

“Are you trying to convince me to return?” Raistlin queried, still looking off into the emptiness.

“Oh,” Takhisis began, Her voice suffused with dark mirth. “I may not get to keep you for my own, little mage, but I’ll have my way in this.”

Quite suddenly, She stood directly before him. Raistlin lifted his gaze to her eyes. The twinge of fear ran through his chest once more, but the steady beat of his heart continued.

“If you remain, you’ll forget everything you’ve learned,” She mused, letting Her eyes slowly wander over his face, taking in his shredded and tattered robes. “If you leave, I’ll have your gift. _It’s mine to claim_.”

Finally understanding, Raistlin closed his eyes. She’d come to gloat. He was trapped, one road leading to oblivion and another… the loss of his magic. Of course they would deliberate. The merciful would spare him oblivion by sending him back, but Takhisis would exact a price. His magic, the power Fistandantilus had needed to open the portal to Her realm, the raw gift the lich had lacked in his own timeline.

“You fear me,” he breathed.

“No more than you fear the loss of yourself or your precious _magic_ ,” She returned, Her voice sharp, cutting. “Either you’ll be lost, utterly, or I’ll have your gift and you’ll fear the simple act of _living_. Do you dare live without magic, Raistlin Majere?”


	4. Chapter 4 - Finality

Raistlin, accompanied by his slowly revolving shadow, continued to wander. His weariness refused to abate, but sleep refused to come if he rested on his side in the sand. Eventually giving up--he’d clearly escaped the physical requirement of sleep--he considered his predicament. He couldn’t mourn that which he couldn’t remember, and yet.

 _And yet_.

What if he could start over? A fresh beginning? Rolling to his side, he pushed himself into a sitting position and crossed his legs. Leaning forward, he ran his fingers through the pale sand. Grasping a fistful, he lifted it and, after holding it for a moment, let it escape. With no breeze to alter their course, the grains fell straight. No pile formed, just as no footsteps remained to mark his passing.

“Magic will remain in the world, Raistlin Majere.”

Having sensed Lunitari’s presence coalescing behind him, Raistlin leaned back on his palms and looked up. Dizzied by her changing form, he closed his eyes. “I used to wonder how it felt for those not born to the magic but schooled in it. Scholar-mages. Does it burn in their blood?” he asked, voice soft, contemplative.

Lunitari’s tilting sickle grin rose through his mind, behind his closed eyes.

“You would have me then, once again? Ungifted scholar mage?”

“It will be different,” came her reply, each word carrying a ring of finality.

“I don’t know how to consent to having this taken from me,” Raistlin admitted a rush, voice going hoarse. Opening his eyes, he stared at the empty horizon. “There won’t be anything left,” he continued in a whisper.

“A possibility. A certainty, if you remain.”

Raistlin, convinced he should feel agitated, folded his arms around his chest. No fluttering stress hovered there, no aching response to the thought of losing his gift, of willingly relinquishing it.

“I need… time. I need to think,” he replied, shutting his eyes. _Please go_.

Feeling her presence disperse, Raistlin climbed back to his feet and set off. His shadow continued its slow revolutions. The landscape remained unchanging, save moments where he willed things into existence. Eventually he discovered sleep was possible, but dreams waited. Unconscious, lost, he found--even in dreams--that he continued to wander. His shadow remained, circling faster and faster.

Finally, once again sensing the density of the gods, Raistlin paused. In a whirl of red, Lunitari appeared before him. A tilting moon, a gently smiling visage.

“It is time, Raistlin Majere. Going forward, your memories will begin to fade. I wish to return you to the world, a sentiment echoed by many of us. Or,” she paused, a quiet melancholy settling into her words, “you may remain, but understand… only true oblivion will follow.”

As Lunitari spoke, the gods of Krynn’s pantheon slowly materialized. As before, his mind struggled to make sense of many of their visages. There, Paladine, so unlike the bumbling wizard Fizban in this endless expanse. Gilean, Takhisis. Letting his eyes rest on each, he tried to place a name to the visage. More gods than any mortal had any business witnessing. This was the lich’s desire, once, to become as they were. A thwarted plan, now a terrible ultimatum. _I don’t belong here_ , Raistlin thought. Quite suddenly, he arrived at a decision.

“I would return, though I have one request.”

A rustle passed through those in attendance. Lunitari, appearing to listen to unspoken words, eventually inclined her head. “You may ask.”

“I wish to return to a city. Palanthas, if…”

The thread of tension amongst the gathering eased. Lunitari's grin rose through his mind, a moon leaving behind an obscuring cloud.

Takhisis, a being of roiling darkness, blinked into existence alongside Lunitari. Lifting Her pale arm, She curled a graceful finger to beckon Raistlin forward.

Fearing that gesture, Raistlin hesitated.

Lunitari, for her part, remained beside Takhisis. A patron god of magic, unflinching.

He could do the same, then. Hardening his resolve, Raistlin approached Takhisis’s form. The hand, having beckoned him, reached forward. A curved nail, glossy black, touched the center of his collarbone.

All the world shattered. Pain, unlike anything Raistlin had previously felt, ignited through his veins, arteries, and behind his eyes. Only distantly, he realized he’d fallen, that Takhisis held something in that pale hand with midnight nails. Twisting, writhing color, fractured light.

His magic.

Surely he was bleeding out. Trying to breathe, although he didn’t need to, he found there was no air, nothing to stop the pain. He couldn’t scream.

With a sharp, deeply tangible _crack_ , it was gone. Coiling brilliance encircled Takhisis’s fist, briefly visible in his fading vision. 

Everything went dark.


	5. Chapter 5 - A Day's Trek

Sunlight, filtering through green leaves. Raistlin, unable to comprehend what his eyes were showing him, blinked, then blinked again. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves. They weren’t wilting, aging. Between the leaves, blue sky was visible. A bird trilled from somewhere behind him, out of sight. Nearby voices rose in friendly chatter. Dazed, lost, Raistlin focused on the leaves, their tiny connecting branches, then let his eyes rove from the branches to the limbs.

“Are ye hungry then?”

Feeling his heart stutter in shock, Raistlin sat up. An elderly man occupied the grass an arm’s length away, sitting cross-legged with his eyebrows lifted expectantly. On first glance, he didn’t appear to be a threat. Raistlin quickly took in the small clearing, its conveniently felled logs currently providing benches for travelers. Finally Raistlin’s gaze fell to the man’s proffered hand, to the pear sitting in his palm.

“It’s a touched bruised there. Plenty good though, jus’ had the other myself.”

Fighting to ignore the tunneling of his vision, racing heart and rising panic, Raistlin gave a slight nod and reached for the pear. “Thank you.” Wincing at how raspy his voice sounded, he coughed and tried to swallow.

“Aha, ye do speak then. We was wonderin’ if ye might’n be mute. Didn’t mean no offense, just speculatin’ ‘s all. Ye waterskin’s there beside ye where ye set it before ye fell asleep.”

Following the man’s gesture, Raistlin found the cloth strap of a waterskin amongst the fold of his traveling cloak. It was full, seemingly one of his belongings. Still trying to fight off a rising state of panic, Raistlin set the pear in his lap and focused on freeing the top of the waterskin.

“We’ll be reachin’ the Old City’s Vingaard gates by mid-afternoon, if ye missed that conversation earlier. Seemed all wrapped up in yer own thoughts, ye did.”  

Lowering the waterskin, Raistlin considered his chatty companion for a moment. Asking him what year it was surely wouldn’t help matters. The man seemed amicable, but he was a stranger nonetheless. Dropping his gaze to his lap, Raistlin reclaimed the pear and decided to proceed with utmost caution. “It’s been a few years since I’ve seen the city. What of you?”

“Oh she’s differen’, that’s for sure! Depends how long ye been away. That’n, Blue Lady came with her dragons and laid waste all over. Did ye hear about that?”

_ Not too long then _ , Raistlin thought. “I heard about that, yes.”

“City recovered well enough from that, mostwise. Rebuilt, ye know. Trade opened up again. Ye can still see the damage ‘round the walls where they’ve patched up.” 

Raistlin, listening, turned the pear in his palms. He couldn’t ask how long ago Kit’s forced attacked, that was information he ought to know. ‘Not too long ago’ seemed terribly imprecise, but it would have to do. Noticing that the travelers around them were starting to pack, Raistlin considered his belongings. The waterskin and his plain linen clothing were new. A wooden staff rested beside him, also new. A satchel containing… something, perhaps more clothing. His footwear, equally unobtrusive. Everything in neutral sandy browns, or beige like the waterskin. Trousers, neatly hemmed. No robes, which explained the amicable stranger’s willing conversation.

Beside him, muttering to himself, the man had regained his feet and thrust a wrinkled hand toward Raistlin.

Still trying to squash his racing thoughts, Raistlin turned to place the pear in his satchel and, after collecting the unfamiliar walking staff, allowed the man to help him up.

Leaving the clearing exposed the travelers to direct sunlight. Raistlin, for lack of a better arrangement, walked alongside his shorter elderly companion. The fellow kept up a steady stream of conversation, seemingly more than content to fill in for Raistlin’s silence. Finally, when the fellow paused for breath, Raistlin snatched his chance. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Oh! Blast, and here I been talkin’ ye ear off for half the day. Herod’s my name, Herod Kettenbur. How about ye?”

Raistlin, having prepared for that before he’d inquired, answered easily. “Ren, short for René. Everyone calls me Ren.”

“Ren it is,” Herod replied, adjusting the strap of his traveling bag. “Thankfully ’s not a damnably hot day for traveling. High summer was rotten this year.”

Giving a noncommittal noise, Raistlin returned his eyes to the road. He didn’t share Herod’s sentiments, or more specifically he was finding everything rather more challenging than he might’ve under normal circumstances. Remembering to breathe had become an unexpected task-- _ don’t think about it, don’t think about it _ \--he kept telling himself, while his heart, having previously occupied a steady rhythm in the realm of nothingness, hadn’t eased from its earlier racing. He didn’t know what to do when they reached the city. Room and board surely, but then what? The scenery, too, was overwhelming. Colors, details, the occasional breeze altering everything momentarily. The multi-colored garments of his traveling companions, the weave of the fabrics they wore. His palm, growing slick with sweat, suddenly slipped on his walking stick.

“Ye alright there, Ren? Sun’s not getting to ye, is it?”

“Fine,” Raistlin snapped reflexively, then sighed. It wouldn’t do to immediately upset the only human currently speaking to him. “Apologies, Herod. You’re right. I took ill from the sun earlier in the summer and haven’t fully recovered. I thought I had.”

Herod, expression clearing of its prior hurt, nodded sagely. “That’ll do ye a turn. Let’s head over to that there fence for a spell.”

Raistlin, following Herod’s gesture, nodded. Together, they parted from the group. Raistlin glanced over his shoulder as the party carried on without them. “Won’t they miss you?”

“Oh them, ha. I joined up with them yesterday, we was all headin’ in the same direction see. Numbers are always safer, ye never know what’s on the roads. We’re’n almost there as it is.”

Reaching the wooden fence, Raistlin noticed a few of the portions extending out from their location had fallen to disrepair. Cautiously leaning against it lest it couldn’t bear weight, he twisted his waterskin around. Beside him, Herod did the same. The road, stretching on to their right, was quiet save for the band of travelers.

“We’ll meet up with them soon, and if not then we’ll meet them at the gate mostlike,” Herod said to himself before looking up at Raistlin. “Ye a scholarly sort, or religious?”

Raistlin, still drinking from his waterskin, started in surprise, then turned to cough into his elbow.

“Ye don’t have to answer, was just wonderin’,” Herod continued, folding his arms and glancing back to the road.

Raistlin, considering where he’d just been and his interactions with Krynn’s deities, realized he didn’t know how to answer. ‘Religious’ barely scratched the surface, yet gave entirely the wrong impression. “I… hardly know at this point,” he replied all-too-truthfully, keeping his gaze on the road.

“Well, ye didn’t look like a lawyer to me, so I thought it safe to talk to ye.”

Almost certain Herod’s comment might’ve faintly amused him once, Raistlin frowned. Beyond the pounding anxiety in his chest, he wasn’t sure what he felt, or indeed if he still had the capacity to feel anything at all.

“Quiet one, ye be,” Herod observed, pushing himself off the fence. “Best be gettin’ on then.”

Raistlin, granting a nod to Herod’s inquisitive gaze, followed after. The rest stop, though kindly suggested by his companion, hadn’t eased the challenges presented by their trek. Determined to get to the city, however, Raistlin decided he wouldn’t stop or give any sign of needing to stop until after he’d arrived and booked himself into a room. 

Near mid-afternoon, a welcome breeze met the travelers. Raistlin picked up the scent of the sea, recognizing it with a jolt.  _ Did I forget that smell? _

Beside him, Herod’s steps slowed. “Ah there, that good sea smell. I always like trekking into the city on errands.”

Although his legs were feeling the strain of their trek, Raistlin increased the length of his stride to match Herod’s pace. His companion, while visibly elderly and shorter than Raistlin, seemed truly blessed of both energy and stamina. A life of activity, Raistlin imagined, with a goodly portion spent outdoors to develop such tan skin and deep wrinkles. The fellow’s golden-brown eyes were clear and bright, his overall cheerful disposition readily apparent.

Looking away, Raistlin focused on walking. Almost certainly Herod--current friendliness notwithstanding--held the same views of mages that permeated most of the non-magically-inclined. A person was a person, until they appeared wearing the robes of their patron god of magic. Would Herod have spoken to him, Raistlin wondered, if he’d returned wearing Lunitari’s red? Would any member of his current traveling party even approach him? Exhaling, Raistlin renewed his grip on his walking staff.  _ Would I have wanted them to? _

Irritated by his current line of thought, Raistlin diverted from the group to open his waterskin. Herod, apparently suffused with good intentions, followed after.

“‘S a good idea, drinking as much water as ye can after yer illness.”

Raistlin, raising his waterskin while his walking staff rested against his chest, realized several things at once. The first: Herod’s voice was grating on him and he was furious, the second: he was well and truly furious, a feeling he’d lost in the realm of the gods and apparently only just now regained, and third: he didn’t have a rational reason to turn his fury on Herod. Clenching his teeth, he re-capped his waterskin and firmly hoped Herod wouldn’t touch him, as his current grasp on his temper was tenuous at best. “Let’s catch up with them. I’m very tired, I want to get to the city.”

Herod, obliviously cheerful, followed after Raistlin. It wasn’t long before they rejoined the group, along with three horse-drawn wagons. Shortly thereafter, the walls of Palanthas came into view. A touch of relief caused some of the tightness in Raistlin’s chest to uncoil. Of all the times for his emotions to wake up, to resume being emotions, this was hardly it. Desperately wanting to arrive, to escape Herod and book a room so he could be  _ alone _ , Raistlin once again quickened his pace.

Then, while keeping his head down and trying to ignore the rumbling clatter of passing wagon wheels, Raistlin’s eyes feel on something unexpected. A pale, pearlescent and wholly transparent child’s foot. Looking up as the third wagon passed him by, Raistlin took in the sight of a young boy idly swinging his legs. Perfectly normal, save that the boy no longer existed amongst the living.

Unaware that he’d stopped, Raistlin stumbled when Herod walked directly into his back.

“Whatsit? What’s the matter?” Herod asked, looking about curiously.

“Nothing,” Raistlin muttered, turning his gaze to the city gate. “Are you a regular patron of any specific inn?” he asked, hoping to learn the name and book lodgings at a different establishment.

“I surely am. The Troubadour’s always got reasonable prices for board,” Herod replied, nodding in pleased recommendation.

_ Prices for board _ . An anxious twist spiked Raistlin’s racing heart yet further. Carefully maintaining his blank expression, he set about rummaging in his satchel. He hadn’t searched his new belongings thoroughly, perhaps funds weren’t-- _ there _ , a carefully folded coin purse, tightly wrapped to prevent tell-tale clinking.  _ Hm _ . Fetching out a coin, Raistlin examined the date. The coin was minted two years after he’d left Palanthas for Istar.

Returning the silver piece to a different pocket to use at the gate toll, Raistlin carefully re-bundled the coin purse and closed his satchel. They were nearing autumn, now, gleaned from his conversation with Herod.  _ Two and a half years? _ Growing light-headed, Raistlin let his gaze fall to the dusty gravely road and took guidance from the milling throng, all moving steadily toward the gate.  _ Two and a half years? _

As Raistlin’s traveling party drew close to the gatehouse, the noise of conversation, intermittent shouts, cawing crows and the clatter of the guards’ armor washed over them. The guards, hot and bothered from dissuading a gaggle of Kender, paid little mind to the horse-drawn wagons and their human drivers. Things were so lax, in fact, that Raistlin--on looking up--realized he could easily slip through without paying the gatehouse toll, but decided against it. The coins, as far as he’d been able to tell from his brief examination, were large sums. Breaking a silver for coppers might help once he was inside. Once he reached the gate, Raistlin found himself with a yawning attendant who, after examining Raistlin’s silver piece, counted out a small pile of coppers. These, Raistlin stashed in his satchel and hurried beneath the gate.

Surrounded by hustle and bustle, Raistlin glanced back toward Herod. Not unexpectedly, the fellow was haggling with the gatehouse clerk. Turning back to the road’s traffic, Raistlin decided to make good on his escape. Waiting for a gap in the wagons, he darted across the thoroughfare and promptly set about losing himself in the city’s throngs of pedestrians. After wandering unfamiliar streets and considering unfamiliar buildings, many showing evidence of having been patched or rebuilt in places just as Herod has said, he realized he’d grown rather lost. Hailing a carriage, he requested a lift to Merchant’s Row. After discussing fare, to be paid upon arrival, he angled his walking staff and ducked into the welcome darkness. The door, pushed shut by the driver, thumped home. Tumbled into his seat by a near-immediate forward jolt, Raistlin leaned his staff against the opposite side of the carriage while the driver rejoined the road’s wagon-traffic. Relieved at finally being out of the sun and temporarily seated, Raistlin worked at stretching his legs in the carriage’s limited footspace.

A room, a week’s booking. Closing his eyes, Raistlin leaned his head against the cloth-covered inside wall. His heart, even though he was finally able to rest for a moment, continued to flutter like a trapped bird. Frowning slightly, he reached up and pressed his first and index finger to his neck. A thin chain met his fingertips, immediately distracting him from trying to count his heartbeats. Straightening up, he followed the length of the chain with fingers from both hands. Seamless, not a clasp to be found. A pendant met his fingers, serving to weight the chain in front. The setting contained a smooth stone, but wasn’t long enough to pull forward and examine. It reached the bottom of his chin when drawn forward.

Another mystery. Deciding to examine it later, with the aid of a looking-glass and better lighting, Raistlin tucked it back beneath his shirt. He hadn’t felt it earlier, he realized, because the pendant had rested between his shirts instead of against his chest.

By the time the carriage reached Merchant’s Row, mainly due to traffic rather than distance, Raistlin was glad to escape its small confines. After compensating the driver, he once again joined the traffic on foot. Here at least were more familiar surroundings. Finding the inn Herod mentioned, Raistlin drew up the wide linen hood of his traveling cloak and intentionally passed it by. Two blocks later he stopped to consider an inn by the name of The Antique Lantern. Soldiers weren’t jovially crowding the entrance as they were at several of the neighboring taverns. The establishment appeared to attract a quieter sort, judging by the pair of merchants currently entering.

It would have to do. Raistlin followed the merchants, mildly surprised when one paused to hold the door for him. Giving a nod of thanks, he stepped into a surprisingly spacious dining area. The inn’s front hadn’t suggested the true depth of the building. Nearly all of the woodwork was dark, of deeply-hued cherry, but the back wall appeared new, built of a lighter wood. Tilting his head, Raistlin studied it for a moment. As the wood didn’t age before his sight, it was easier to accurately identify it. Oak, sanded and sturdy. A small fire danced in the hearth, there to provide a welcoming ambiance more than warmth. Nearly all of the windows were open, allowing for a cooling cross-breeze in the shaded interior. Cheerful conversation and nice smells emanated from the kitchen, largely obscured by a wall and the long L-shaped counter of the bar. The two merchants had already settled at the bar, while two small parties and one solitary patron occupied the tables. The solitary patron was a white-robed mage. Thankful for his anonymity and satisfied with his selection, Raistlin drew off his hood and approached the young woman perched behind the guestbook. Once he’d drawn close, she looked up and presented him with a pleasant smile. “Good evening! What can I do for you?”

Drawing a blank on social niceties, Raistlin glanced toward the two merchants as if considering, then returned his eyes to her inquiring expression. “I’d like a room, please, a week’s booking if I may, and… if you know which room’s likeliest to be quiet, I’d favor that.”

Nodding as he spoke, she dropped her gaze and flipped through a few pages on the counter before her, obscured from Raistlin’s view by the guestbook. “Certainly, yes. I have just the room. Go ahead and sign-” without looking, she reached up and gave a light tap to the guestbook “-on the next available line. That’ll be two silver and three copper now, and again when you check out at the end of the week.”

Raistlin reached up to claim the quill, dipped it for ink, and signed the made-up name he’d given Herod. After barely a second’s pause, he added  _ Jenis _ for the last name. Returning the quill, he hunted through his satchel and counted out the first payment, which the young woman collected and stored in a lockbox.

“Right then, let me find your key…..” disappearing below the counter for a moment, she eventually resurfaced with a long-handled steel key. “Now you’ll want to go up the stairs, just there-” she gestured toward a stairwell that appeared to go up half a level, then turned to the right, “-and head down the hall until you get to door fifteen. Oh and, since we’ve rebuilt we have gravity plumbing, so the pitchers of water are for the toilets. Would you like hot water sent up?”

Finding that he was at the end of his social rope, Raistlin considered the stairwell for a moment.  _ A bath _ . That’s what she was asking. “Yes, please. Thank you.”

“I’ll get that going for you straight away then. Thank you-” she began, then leaned to scrutinize the guestbook “-René, I hope you enjoy your stay!”

Thankfully freed, Raistlin inclined his head in answer, then headed for the stairs. His leg muscles, already weary, achingly protested at the climb. Determined to get to his room, Raistlin ignored his road-weary limbs and, reaching the second landing, continued down the hall to the specified door. It was at the very end, for that side, and would likely afford him a view overlooking the street, or of the next building over. Lifting the key, Raistlin slid it home and turned it to the left. Hearing the tumbler click, he turned the doorknob to let himself in.

The room was just as he’d hoped it’d be. Wooden flooring, a sturdy bed with a comfortable-looking mattress and bedspread, windows overlooking the rooftops of a few neighboring buildings. A dresser for clothes, a small fireplace (unlit, but with wood resting in the brazier). A smaller adjacent room with the end of a tub just barely visible from the door. Wearied beyond comprehension, Raistlin closed the door behind him and, steps nearly dragging, approached the bed to start shedding his travel-wear. Untying his cloak, he moved to a chair sitting in front of a small letter-writing desk and draped it over the back. Tugging at the strap of his waterskin, he dragged it around and ducked free of it. This, too, he dropped on the chair by the writing desk. The satchel, heavier, presented a struggle to escape from, but once he’d pulled it free he set it on the bed. Then, sitting beside it, he set to work on his boots. Once they were untied, he shifted out of them.

Exhausted, blank, Raistlin considered the floor. All at once, the bed felt too high. Once again aware of his heart racing, of blood pounding in his ears, Raistlin--finally giving in--moved to slip off the bed and sit on the floor. Placing his palms to careworn boards, he walked them forward until he was resting on his side, cheek pressed to the grain of the wood. Finally, the panic he’d kept at bay washed over him, dizzying, immediately tunneling his vision, forcing his eyes fully out of focus. Lost in shaky gasps for breath, he wrapped his arms around his middle and drew his knees up. Hearing faint cries escaping his throat, he raised a wrist to stuff it, linen sleeve and all, between his teeth. Biting down, he continued to let the panic have its way with him. It would pass, it always had before. How long had it been since he’d experienced this?  _ Years _ . He hadn’t felt anything in the realm of nothingness.

A sudden knock on the door startled Raistlin into a sitting position, suddenly even more panicked that someone would enter and find him in such a state. Fighting lightheadedness, he recalled the bath water. Climbing to his feet, he clenched his teeth and opened the door a crack.

“Hot water, Mr. Jenis!” Announced a boy of sturdy build, hardly out of his teens. “Me and the others, we’ve got enough buckets to fill the bath in a go.”

Raistlin, quickly registering that they were here on a mission and would likely finish up and disappear as soon as they’d completed it, stepped back and drew the door wide. As promised, four boys and a girl of varying teenage to young adult years hurried in with deep buckets of steaming water. Clearly practiced at filling baths, they each visited the tub, then moved out of the way for the next.

“All done! Be sure to come down and let us know if you need anything!” Stated the boy who’d originally spoken, ushering his compatriots out the door with only the slightest clatter of empty buckets.

Raistlin, surprised at the efficiency, closed the door behind them. Gripping the doorknob for a moment, he realized the intrusion had knocked the bout of panic aside. Thankfully it was the only interruption he’d likely have to deal with. Still shaky and exhausted, he turned the lock and straightened to walk over to the bathroom entrance. Small shelves with a decent stock of washing soaps occupied the wall beside the bath. Realizing he very much wanted a bath, he worked at shedding the remainder of his clothing. Once undressed, he considered the steaming water, then reached a hand toward it. Startled by the sensation of heat, of the water itself, he withdrew his hand. A moment passed, Raistlin studying the bath, wondering how to go about bathing. “Ridiculous,” he muttered. “Raistlin Majere, afraid to bathe.” Gripping the porcelain edge, he slipped a foot in. Gasping at the rush of heat and sensation, he clenched his teeth and decisively shifted his weight to the foot in the bath. A moment later he brought the other foot to join it. Amazed by the sensation of the hot water about his legs, he ducked to sit, slid his arms into the water, then--lifting his hands to grasp the sides of the bath--let himself sink in. If he relaxed, the depth reached his neck and almost covered his knees. Sitting still, he let himself acclimate to his new surroundings.

Eventually, once the sensation of the water rippling whenever he moved ceased to unnerve him, he reached for a sponge from the shelf. “Raistlin Majere, two years overdue for a bath,” he muttered to himself, soaking the sponge before selecting a soap from the variety of offerings. Creating a heap of suds, he set about thoroughly scrubbing from forehead to toes. The bath, thankfully, didn’t appear to accumulate any trace of grime. He hadn’t sweated in the realm of the gods, as far as he knew. If there was dirt, it was only the dirt he’d managed to acquire on the day’s trek into the city.

Even so, it felt good to wash his hair. Emboldened, he ducked beneath the surface of the water and ran his fingers through it to dislodge the soap. Resurfacing and nearly scrubbed raw, he settled back in the bath. The day’s events, firmly set aside until now, rose up in his thoughts. The small clearing, the pear, Herod, the wearying trek into the city, the spirit of the young boy sitting on the back of the wagon. Frowning, Raistlin drew up a knee and linked his wrists around it. Hardly the first spirit or ghost he’d seen, but why now? Godly interference, or a symptom of having spent time in their realm? Following the encounter, he’d carefully avoided looking for more. Resting his cheek against the cool porcelain of the bath, he breathed out slowly. With a faint  _ tink! _ , the mysterious necklace met the side of the bath. Glancing up, Raistlin considered the looking glass mounted over the sink. What did the necklace look like? What did  _ he _ look like?

Could he still cast a spell?

Sitting up, he lifted his hands and considered them for a moment. The skin leading down from his wrists appeared slightly mottled, showing faint whorls of white. Burn scars. Running a finger over the scarring, he found patches of skin that lacked sensation. With a weary sigh, he let his arms sink back beneath the surface of the bath. “Raistlin Majere, afraid to try and cast even then most basic of spells,” he whispered. Closing his eyes for a moment, he summoned the energy to climb out of the bath and wrap himself in a towel. Once standing he could see the early evening’s light was sinking into an orange and purple-hued sunset. Lunitari’s namesake moon, nearly full, was rising over the rooftops.

Raistlin turned toward the mirror. A pale face greeted him, thinner than he remembered. Freckled skin. He’d had freckles as a child, as had his brother, but they’d faded on Caramon. Raistlin, once he’d acquired the gold cast to his skin after his Test, had merely forgotten he’d ever had them.

Leaning in, he noted that his eyes were blue. They’d been blue in his childhood, but he’d forgotten the shade. Crows feet edged the outer corners. The chain of the necklace was gold, but there wasn’t enough light to make out the hue of the dark stone within the small pendant. Wet slightly curled hair shrouded his shoulders, dripping now-cold water down his back.

Uncertain what to make of any of it, or perhaps too weary to continue wondering, he turned away from his reflection to gather another towel. Far too tired to care about dressing, he climbed into bed and used his foot to push his satchel to the floor. It landed with a  _ thunk _ and the faintest clatter of coin. Sleep, though he hadn’t needed it in the realm of nothing, was proving utterly inescapable now. 


End file.
